


the ink under your skin

by mysterymistakes



Series: my darling wants me dead [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugs, Face-Fucking, Jealousy, M/M, Mafia Dynamics, Oral Fixation, Overstimulation, Possession, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25982260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterymistakes/pseuds/mysterymistakes
Summary: “Sylvain,”Claude’s voice cuts through the room. Sylvain looks to him, where he’s lounging, hands folded in his lap and staring, eyes cold and hard. Sylvain likes that look on Claude. He likes seeing it used on others, when Claude is testing their strings, seeing where they’ll snap. To be on the receiving end, though, is thrilling.“Are you going to kill him?”based on cosumosu's incredible smug au art!
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Series: my darling wants me dead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187918
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	the ink under your skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MxTicketyBoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxTicketyBoo/gifts).



> hello! please mind the tags. also claude calls sylvain "baby boy" but it's not affiliated with daddy kink. 
> 
> this is based on [cosu's](https://twitter.com/guessibetter) amazing smug au claudevain art!
> 
> edit as of 1/30/21- hi everyone! thank you so much for the love on this. i'm just going in and reformatting everything correctly, since it was a little um. worse for the wear. happy reading!

The rules of the game are simple.

Do as you’re told, stick with your people, and don’t ask questions. Do this, and you and yours will be provided for, kept safe. It’s simple, easy. Anyone can do it. 

Terrible, then, for Sylvain. He’s never been one for _rules._

\- 

“For you, Claude.”

Three bodies land with a terrible _thud_ against the pristine, ebony floorboards. The guards, two behemoths of men, lift them to their knees by the backs of their shirts. Their hands are bound behind them, and they’re all pretty banged up, two with cuts on their foreheads and bruises marring on their cheeks and one with an eye swollen shut. Sylvain almost feels bad for them; their baby fat has yet to melt from their cheeks, and their feigned confidence wears about as well as wet paper-mâché. It slides from their faces in bits and pieces as the door behind them deadbolts.

Sylvain takes a drag from the long, thin pipe balanced between his fingers, dead eyes tracing across the pitiful offerings. Smoke swirls in his lungs, lazy and thick. It’s disappointing, really, that this is what the Lions have sent after him. Have they no respect? Is he not more valuable than a couple of lowly _teenagers?_ Sylvain sighs, blows a sickly-sweet cloud of tobacco between himself and them. He crosses one long leg over the other to admire how the subtle gems inset into the black velvet of his shoes glimmer in the low light. He’s perched delicately on the thick, carved arm of the single piece of furniture in the room. It’s a chair- a throne, really- in which only one person is ever allowed to sit. Burnished, gilded bone makes up the sprawling back of it, the body a sturdy mass of chiseled and stained sandalwood.

Lounging in it, as though it were any other recliner, is Claude.

From above, Sylvain can see the glint of his diamond-drop necklace where it rests just between the roots of the antlers inked across his sternum. He’s got on some of Sylvain’s favorites today; the billowing black chiffon shirt unbuttoned to his stomach and tucked into slacks that fit him _just so,_ delicate gold accents here and there, between his belt buckle and the earring Sylvain knows to be set at the curve of his jaw, and all the way down to the eyelets of his shining, patent shoes. The hand that had been resting on Sylvain’s thigh slides off. Sylvain’s eyes track the sharp points of his clawed rings; the seamless, delicate joints are silent as they curve with Claude’s fingers, brought to hover contemplatively at his chin. Sylvain can’t see it, but he knows the cold, calculated passivity on Claude’s face as he examines the youths at his feet. He takes up the entire room, sweeps focus from the ornate décor, pulls from the fluted details of the walls and the hazy gilding woven through every corner, smooth and commanding.

“Well?” Says Claude. Their focus snaps to him, façades fallen to the floor and fear alive on their faces. _Weak,_ thinks Sylvain. “Three lost, little cubs. Care to tell me what you’ve been doing, snooping around my territory?” This is Claude’s favorite part of the game. He loves to pick apart his prey, make them lay their secrets at his feet like jewels to be appraised, even if it’s nothing more than worthlessly shiny pyrite. Sylvain loves to watch, always amused by the stories their enemies will try to spin, because, of course, they already _know_ everything. Three of the Lions’ “best” charged with taking Sylvain home, by will or by force. “Don’t be shy. I’d love to hear it from you.” Claude calls, almost disinterested, and Sylvain has to bite back a laugh at the way all three of them immediately look to where he’s perched at Claude’s side.

“Him?” Claude asks. He raises his clawed hand to Sylvain’s face, takes his jaw in a gentle grip. The points of his rings bite into Sylvain’s cheeks as he’s dragged down into a kiss, a flashy and possessive thing full of teeth and tongue. He sighs into it, melts into Claude, lets his flimsy shirt fall open so that their captives can see where the von Riegan half-moon has been artfully stamped over the twelve-point star just beneath his navel. Thinking about it always makes heat flare in Sylvain’s stomach, and he sinks selfishly further into Claude.

“Traitor!” Claude pulls back from Sylvain, the gleam in his eye giving away his satisfaction at how quickly the little Lions broke. Some of Sylvain’s gloss has left little gold flecks on the seam of Claude’s lips. He leans back, takes another drag from his pipe, content to watch.

The cub in the middle of the three stares at Sylvain, unswollen eye brimming with an anger too full of vitriol for his age. Clearly, he is wont to be a leader, his yet-fresh star branded high on his throat. It’s gaudy, headstrong and stupid. Apt, really. “How could you?” He spits, lips curling back into a snarl that Sylvain’s seen before, the same snarl he’d been taught to use when cornered. “You betrayed us! Mr. Blaiddyd gave you everything you could’ve wanted!” 

“ _Mister_ Blaiddyd _,_ ” Sylvain mocks, “He branded himself like that and can’t even say his first name.” Claude’s lips twitch up, just briefly. 

“And for what?” The kid snarls, drops of saliva flying crudely from his mouth, “You left your friends, your family, to do what? To become the Deer’s _whore?_ ”

The room goes cold, and the two smaller, less foolhardy captives look upon their fearless leader in horror. Claude’s hand twitches. This insolent child should know better than to throw such insults around, especially when at the mercy of a head of house. People’s brains have been blown out for far less, but to demean Claude, to imply that his chosen partner is nothing more than a traitor and a whore? Well. Sylvain lays a cool hand on Claude’s tense forearm.

“May I?” Sylvain asks. “I would hate it if you got blood on that shirt.” When Claude looks at him to answer, his emeraldine eyes are full of quiet fury.

“Be my guest.”

Sylvain thanks him with a languid kiss. He sets his pipe down with care as he alights from his perch at Claude’s side to make his way towards the little Lions. Claude’s eyes burn into the small of his back, where the ends of his antler tattoos peek out between the waist of his low-slung pants and the hem of his open shirt. Idly, he flips out a butterfly knife, lets it dance between his fingers, and comes to rest a few paces in front of them. His smile is smug and lazy.

“ _The Deer’s Whore_ , huh? Is that what they’re calling me, these days?” The kid glowers at him, mouth still twisted into an ugly snarl and staring hot up into Sylvain’s carefully placid gaze. His knife finds its way beneath the kid’s chin and tilts it up. The wicked-sharp blade presses a threat into the soft, vulnerable flesh. “Let me tell you something about your dear _Mister Blaiddyd._ ” He hisses, acid seeping into his voice. “ _Dimitri_ ,” he says, and three sets of eyes widen, “Sent me to die. He sent me, alone, into the belly of the beast to chase a piece of information that was not worth my life. He told me, if I came back empty-handed, it would be my skull hanging outside his door next. And none of my so-called _family_ said anything about it.” The memory rages behind his eyes, the image of Felix and Ingrid tight-lipped and looking away as Dimitri sends him deep into Claude’s domain. His orders had been to seduce, to sniff out a watery trail of blood money Dimitri was obsessed over. From the outside, the Deer are notorious for their impeccably covered trails, the way their false leads could almost be considered an art form. Long since good enough to trick the feds, and apparently, good enough to trick another head of house. 

Sylvain hadn’t made it twelve hours in Claude’s territory. Before long, he’d been drugged and beaten, thrown to Claude’s feet just the way these three had. _I spared you,_ Claude had said, _so that you’ll owe me a favor. You Lions are honest like that._ He’d yanked Sylvain’s hair, pulled him up to eye-level and appraised him. _Hilda was right, you are pretty. I think she was a little jealous. I’d love to keep you for myself._ Sylvain had known that it was just to plant a seed, just to get under his skin and keep his thoughts coming back to Claude, but he’d agreed, said he’d wanted to stay. If Dimitri didn’t understand the price of his life, Sylvan had reasoned, then it’s not his to throw away. 

The kid grits his teeth. “That’s not true,” he bites out, young and stupid, “Mr. Blaiddyd would never do that.”

Sylvain’s shoe hits him square in the chest. He goes flying, slides across the floor with the wretched _squeak_ of skin on lacquer and slams into the bolted doors. Anger curls hot and sharp through Sylvain, spurs him forward to grab the kid by his collar and slam him up against the wall. “Wouldn’t he?” Sylvain sneers, throws him to the ground. He lands hard on his back. A horrid _crunch_ comes from where his arms are pinned under him. “Look around you.” Sylvain says. He presses the ball of his foot to the dead center of that wretched star, watches the kid’s eyes fill with terror as his Adam’s apple quakes beneath the pressure. A neck is little more than membrane and cartilage. “You’ve been sent to die.” He presses a little harder. “The same way I was. _Claude_ saved me. He took me in, gave me a real family. The Deer care for their own in a way Dimitri’s precious Lions never will.” It’s true. The Lions pride themselves on their ability to instill fear, how fast they can punch and how hard they can bite, and that poison seeps into everything. It ruins people. It ruined Dimitri. 

Beneath the velvet of his shoe, the kid starts to purple. Sylvain shifts, takes his foot from his neck and leans down beside him as he coughs and sputters, inhaling wildly. The deadly point of Sylvain’s knife traces across the star. “Sure, call me the Deer’s whore. I don’t care what you think of me. I was just as expendable as you are.” The knife is gone as quick as it came. Sylvain drags him back up by his throat. The kid is lifted clean off the ground, feet kicking miserably as he’s held to eye level. Sylvain sees the steely-cold amber of his own eyes reflected in wide, terrified brown. The kid’s mouth opens as he fails to squeak in a breath.

“But don’t you _ever,_ ” Sylvain growls, low and deadly and wild, “speak ill of Claude.”

Vile red creeps into the edges of his vision, clouding where this disdainful child bites out fragments of sound around Sylvain’s vice grip. He narrows his eyes, squeezes a little more, feels the cartilage creak and threaten to fail. Wouldn’t that just be the thing to send back to Dimitri, Sylvain muses, one of his little cubs in a body bag. A drop of blood runs down the outside of his hand from where his nails bite into the skin of his neck. It would be so easy, just to squeeze that little bit more-

“Sylvain,”

Claude’s voice cuts through the room. Sylvain looks to him, where he’s lounging, hands folded in his lap and staring, eyes cold and hard. Sylvain likes that look on Claude. He likes seeing it used on others, when Claude is testing their strings, seeing where they’ll snap. To be on the receiving end, though, is thrilling.

“Are you going to kill him?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, holds a knife to Sylvain’s throat and presses. This is what Sylvain has come to love about the Deer. Claude has no need of excessive displays of force, no use for glamour killings or skulls hung on doors. His authority is woven seamlessly into every word he says, every choice he makes, and it sets Sylvain on _fire._ It’s refreshing to be reminded that Claude _doesn’t_ have him all figured out. Sylvain lets go without bothering to glance backwards as the kid crumples to the floor. Something like approval crosses Claude’s face as Sylvain returns to his seat aside the throne, plucks his pipe from the arm of the chair and crosses his legs. The other two little cubs watch their leader writhe, hacking and coughing and with at least one of his arms out of place. Sylvain snorts, incredulous. Dimitri should’ve known to send better. He lights his pipe again and takes a drag, lets the sharp edge of his anger flow out of him with the smoke. The door unbolts, heaves open to let the two massive guardsmen back in.

“Honestly, Claude. Are you done yet?” Hilda demands. She’s standing in the entryway, looking down at the little Lions like they’re stains on the floor. Claude chuckles, smiling like she’d caught him watching cartoons on a school night, or something similarly far from the truth.

“Sorry, Hilda. Sylvain wanted to have some fun. You know I can’t help myself.” He looks to Sylvain adoringly, traces the point of his thumb across the swell of his cheek. The smile slides from his face. All the air in the room goes with it. “Send them back to their den.” Hilda nods tightly and turns on her heel. The guards pull the little Lions to standing and take them away. “One more thing,” Claude calls. “Tell Dimitri he’ll have to do better next time.” The door swings shut with a bang.

Sylvain barely has time to blink before he’s hoisted into Claude’s lap and brought into a bruising kiss. Claude is everywhere, overwhelming as he licks hot into Sylvain; his hands roam the soft, scarred expanse of Sylvain’s torso, scratching lines across the small of his back, over the tattoos inked in by Claude's own hand, splaying across and pressing into the sensitive crescent moon just above the waistband of his pants. Sylvain sighs into it, tilts his head and relaxes his jaw, settles his hands on Claude’s warm waist through the open front of his shirt. Sylvain is still riding the fighting high, still a little drunk on power as he grinds down onto Claude’s half-hard cock. He can taste the remnants of his gloss on Claude’s lips, licks the rest of it off as he pulls back to watch the way Claude’s eyes, dark and predatory, track the pink of his tongue. 

Sylvain knows he looks good. He knows the way his hair falls over his face, the way his bangs curtain over his eyes to make the dark, slightly sparkly liner he’s got carefully blown out over his lids shine enticingly. He knows the pretty pout of his lips, how they’re bitten and blooming red in the center. He knows the long line of his neck, how it begs to be bruised and marked, knows the sensual curve of his back, knows that every inch of him is wont to be picked apart and destroyed. Sylvain knows he’s _good at sex,_ and that he’s smart about it; it’s a carefully-curated skill that’s kept him from the business end of a bullet and provided him a seat next to the big dogs. Sylvain’s sexual prowess is built from the ground-up to blow minds and reveal secrets and keep his head perfectly clear the whole time. 

Sex with Claude throws all of that away. 

They’re connected by a line of spittle that bends, stretches and droops under its own weight to soak into expensive fabric as Claude brings his clawed thumb to Sylvain’s bottom lip. 

Sylvain’s mouth drops open, invites the point into the soft, wet heat of his tongue, closes his lips around it and hollows his cheeks. The sharp tang of metal fills his mouth and burns up into his sinuses. Claude’s hand shifts to hold his jaw, pinching into the same spot where he’d held a knife to that snarling little cub.

“Oh, _Sylvie_.” He growls, voice thick with arousal. “You did well, baby boy.” Sylvain whines high in his throat and his eyes flutter shut as Claude’s voice wraps around him. “I’m sure Dimitri will be excited for his presents. You wrapped them so nicely.” Sylvain sighs, opens his mouth again, lets Claude watch as he laves his tongue around the sharp metal between his teeth. Claude switches his thumb for three of his fingers, wiping spit across Sylvain’s cheek as he does.

“So pretty,” Claude says, low and almost absentminded as Sylvain wraps his hands around Claude’s wrist, holds him there to lick and suck at the fingers in his mouth. “They never indulged you like this, hm? Never let you stuff yourself full.” Sylvain moans. Spit bubbles past his lips to slide down his chin, down Claude’s palm and past the inside of his wrist to soak into his sleeve. He’s almost contemplative as he watches Sylvain, perched upon his lap and starting to come undone with little more than his fingers in his mouth. “It’s almost a shame that no one will ever get to see you like this. You really were wasted with the Lions, weren’t you, baby?” Sylvain nods, hazy as Claude starts to fuck his fingers in and out of his mouth, watches hungrily as the gold edges of his rings disappear past the seam of his lips over and over again. He loves when Claude gets like this, lustful and possessive. It makes Sylvain feel wanted, cherished, like he’s more than his body or a means to an end, makes the heat curling through him flare aggressively. He moans around the fingers- Claude likes him noisy. 

“I think you deserve a reward.” Claude says, and Sylvain’s eyes snap to meet his, drinking in that half-lidded gaze. “Would you like that, Sylvie?” Sylvain nods fervently. “Good.” Claude shifts as he slides his fingers from Sylvain’s mouth, spreads his knees farther apart to create a perfect, Sylvain-sized slot between his thighs. 

Sylvain presses reverent kisses to the exposed skin of Claude’s torso as he slides to the floor, maintains eye contact with that piercing green gaze as he deftly works open Claude’s pants, slides them to the ground. Claude looks positively _regal_ , the intricate, overlapping pattern of bone behind him frames him as though he were a saint, like he didn’t carve his way to the top, as though he hasn’t made his throne at the top of a mountain of bodies. It’s fitting, really, for the altar Sylvains worships at to be soaked in blood and marrow. Claude fists a hand into Sylvain’s hair to guide him roughly up the inside of his thighs until his nose is pressed into the underside of his cock. 

“Open up,” he says, and Sylvain does. The hand at the back of his head drags his tongue up to the head of his cock. “Good boy.” Claude breathes, and it makes Sylvain’s jaw open wider, makes his head go fuzzy. 

Sylvain sucks down the length of Claude’s cock in one go. He’s long and _thick,_ Sylvain’s lips stretch thin around his width, and he feels the head of it bump against the back of his throat. Claude groans, brings his other hand to the back of Sylvain’s head to pull him up and down. Sylvain hums as tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He _loves_ this, loves when Claude uses him to chase his own pleasure, stuffs his mouth full with his cock until there’s no room left to think, until it’s just spit and precum and _Claude, Claude, Claude_. Sylvain relishes in watching Claude come apart, adores being the one that he indulges himself in. He’s the only one to see Claude unravel like this, and it makes him hot all over, makes his nails dig into the tops of Claude’s thighs as he relaxes further to let Claude push him deeper, bury his nose in dark curls, pull him back up and slam him down again. It’s rough, it’s filthy. It makes his jaw ache and fat tears dark with liner roll down his cheeks, but it’s worth it for the praises that tumble from Claude, the _oh, Sylvie_ and _so good for me_ and _just like that, baby_ that make Sylvain’s brain melt out of his ears and makes molten lust churn hot through him. His cock aches where it’s trapped in the too-tight confines of his pants. 

“God, baby boy, you’re too good, look so pretty with your mouth stuffed full,” Claude groans, “gonna make me cum.” Sylvain moans, deep and reverberating around Claude’s cock. He looks up from underneath his lashes. Claude is _gorgeous_ above him, eyes trained on where Sylvain is stretched around him, half-lidded and heady with a light sheen of sweat across his chest that makes him glisten as he takes in heavy breaths, and Sylvain did that, made Claude, so kept and calculated, come undone. 

Claude cums in his mouth with a deep growl that reverberates through Sylvain as he takes it all in, feels it fill his cheeks and spill down his throat. He comes off with a lewd _pop!_ to sit back on his heels. He opens up so Claude can see where he sits bitter on Sylvain’s tongue, see how he’s been claimed, inside and out. “Come here,” Ringless fingers, warm and thick, find their way into Sylvain’s mouth, push in and swirl around the filthy mixture of spit and cum. “Don’t swallow.” He crawls back into Claude’s lap, whining and painfully hard, leaky cock still trapped inside his tight pants and aching for relief. It’s hard not to swallow when Claude’s other hand pops his fly, shoves his pants below his ass and gives his cock a few rough strokes. He moans anyway, lets some of the filth spill out and down his chin, thrilling at the way Claude tracks it down his neck. Claude pulls his hand from Sylvain’s lips, fingers milky-white with cum and spit. He marvels, for a moment, at how the mixture pulls between the digits, sticky and translucent, but Sylvain breaks his fascination with a heady _please_. Claude brings his slick fingers to Sylvain’s ass, pushes two in with little fanfare. 

Sylvain is still loose from that morning, when Claude had flipped him over and licked and sucked like a man starving until Sylvain was little more than a moaning, boneless puddle, grasping weakly at the sheets as he came. His fingers slide in with ease, and Sylvain drops forward onto him with a satisfied sigh. The head of his cock rubs against the scratchy chiffon of Claude’s shirt to make him shiver as he’s worked open, and Sylvain buries his nose into the crook of Claude’s neck, inhales the familiar, cinnamony scent of his cologne. Claude nibbles at the lobe of his ear, presses kisses to the curve of Sylvain’s jaw. Sweet words, praises of _so tight, so good, only for me_ fill Sylvain’s ears, turn his mind to mush and contrast with the deliciously hard bite of Claude’s nails into his thigh. Sylvain is warm, safe in the middle of this wide, wide room. He’s the center of Claude’s world, but this is how he _knows_ it, that Claude takes the time to pick him apart in all the ways he likes, hurts him when he wants it and soothes him when he doesn’t. Claude keeps him close for reasons Sylvain never thought possible in his old life; he loves Sylvain’s mind, and tells him so, tells him how he’s so much more than just a warm body and that he was wasted elsewhere. On paper, his role is Claude’s personal bodyguard, but he’s also Claude’s confidante, his advisor and the enforcer of his rules- not that they _need_ much enforcing, but Sylvain’s glad to do it, even if just for the way that Claude fucks him afterwards. 

“I love you like this,” Claude whispers into his ear as Sylvain bites out a moan, digs his nails into Claude’s shoulders, “so open, just for me. Isn’t that right, Sylvie?” He asks, gently pulling Sylvain’s head from his shoulder. Sylvain knows he must look a wreck, tear tracks dark with makeup streaking his cheeks, chin stained with Claude’s cum and his spit, red, puffy lips parted as he pants. 

“Just for you.” Sylvain cries, as a third of Claude’s fingers slides in. God, he’s so _full,_ split open on Claude, laid bare beneath his gaze, but he wants _more_. His cock is hard against his tight stomach, the tip of it leaking fat globs of precum onto the base of the crescent there. Claude’s cock is hard against the back of his thigh, and Sylvain grinds down towards it, forcing those fingers just a little bit deeper. “Claude,” he says between heavy breaths, “Fuck me, _please._ ” Claude blinks at him with feigned cluelessness, slides his hand from Sylvain’s hair to his chest to pinch and pull meanly at his nipples. 

“I am fucking you, Sylvie.” He presses the pads of his fingers into Sylvain’s prostate to make him shake and see stars, “Do you want something else?” Sylvain’s voice is gone with the way pleasure courses white-hot through him, reduced to a mess of moans as Claude continues. “Answer me.”

“I want,” Sylvain manages, “your- _ah!_ ”

“My what? You already have my hands, darling.” He grinds up, lets his cock tease just below where Sylvain is stretched around him. Sylvain shifts his weight, pulls himself up from Claude’s fingers. His hole flutters, clenching around nothing, stretched and soaked with the spit and cum that now leakes down the inside of his thighs.

“I want you,” he breathes, a drop of precum rolling down the length of his neglected cock to make him shiver. He grabs Claude’s cock (and relishes in the way Claude sucks in a deep breath) and sinks down on it, feeling it fill him inch by inch until he’s fully seated. The stretch burns a little, the remnants of Claude’s cum and his spit not quite enough to make the slide as easy as it could be, but Sylvain likes it, likes the edge of pain to make the pleasure just that much sweeter. “To fuck me,” he rolls his hips as Claude’s hands slide over his ass to sit at the sensitive crux of his thighs, “with your cock, like you mean it.” Nails pinch into the backs of Sylvain’s legs, and he knows he’s going to get what he wants, “Please.” 

Claude slams up into Sylvain with fervor, forcing him forward and back into Claude’s strong chest. His hands scrape against his pecs as he moans, digging into his tattoos as he’s split open. It’s euphoric. Claude’s cock hits his prostate dead-on with each thrust, sends waves of electric pleasure coursing through him with a vengeance, and Sylvain wails. God, it feels _so good,_ and he’s _so full,_ jaw slack as Claude chases his pleasure. He’s racing towards the precipice, orgasm building hot and fast in the pit of his stomach.

“ _Mine,_ ” Claude growls, and Sylvain comes untouched. He paints his stomach white, stains the tattoo and Claude’s shirt, but Claude doesn’t stop. Sylvain screams as Claude continues his brutal pace, slamming in and out of Sylvain and there’s too much, his body doesn’t know how to handle it, pleasure and pain mixing to overwhelm him completely. He shakes, moans spilling unbidden from his mouth as he collapses completely into Claude. He’s caught by strong arms, held there as Claude uses him. It doesn’t take much more for Claude to cum a second time, sinking his teeth into Sylvain’s neck. He slides out, sticky white leaking from Sylvain’s abused hole as he twitches in Claude’s arms.

Sylvain doesn’t remember being carried from the audience room through one of the back doors set seamlessly into the wall, nor does he remember a warm, wet washcloth being dragged carefully over his body, the kisses pressed to his tattoos or the cotton round delicately wiped across his face. When he does come back to, he’s tucked into Claude’s familiar, enormous bed, propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows. Claude stands just off to the side, shirtless as he searches through a bureau drawer. From here, Sylvain can see the enticing ripple of his muscles beneath inked skin, slim waist disappearing into the loose lounge pants he’s changed into. 

“Nice ass.” 

Claude turns, smiling softly. He crawls into bed next to Sylvain, peppers his face with kisses. 

“Hey, baby boy. You dropped pretty bad there, I almost thought I went too hard on you.” Sylvain laughs and worms his way out from underneath the blankets to sit up, shaking his head. “You did do a good job dealing with those kids, though.” Claude runs a warm hand through Sylvain’s hair. “I meant to tell you, but,” He chuckles, low and warm, “I was a little preoccupied.” 

“Clearly.” Sylvain says. His voice is hoarse, and shoulders pop as he stretches his arms above his head, shaking off the last of his haze. He feels good, happy. Sated. 

“I was thinking,”

“Uh-oh,” Quips Sylvain, earning a light smack to his arm,

“I was thinking, oh _Deer’s_ _whore_ ,about how we should get them back.” 

Sylvain’s easy, sleepy smile turns sly. The rules of the game follow that if someone is caught in an attempt to infiltrate (or otherwise sabotage) a rival house, then there must be a response of some kind. An eye for an eye, or something like that. 

“I think,” Sylvain hums, because this is what he does, what Claude really keeps him around for, “I have some ideas.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mysterymistakes). big ol thanks to the discord for their support, and especially to bun ([twitter](https://twitter.com/softmatchabun), [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichigobun/pseuds/ichigobun)) for listening when my brain turned to rocks.


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